The flashing police lights diluted the fog, revealing faces—some familiar, some strange—flickering between light and shadow, mottled and surreal.
The red and blue lights illuminated the night sky above the construction site, but not the pool of blood on the ground.
The dark stain of blood, like an ugly, glaring birthmark, seeped into the equally dark earth.
Tong Hao huddled in the back seat, his forehead pressed against the backrest of the front passenger seat, refusing to glance at the commotion outside the window. Instead, he stared blankly at his feet, unblinking, only occasionally closing his eyes for a second.
Outside the car, the noise was deafening. The clamor of voices made him feel slightly dazed, as if he were alone in a theater watching a play unfold on screen—the joys and sorrows belonged to others, leaving him only as an observer.
The sound of an ambulance grew louder, then faded into the distance.
Tong Hao shut himself inside the cramped back seat, cutting himself off from all information. He closed his eyes, counted his breaths, and forced himself not to imagine anything.
The car door opened, letting in a gust of biting cold air.
When he opened his eyes, it was Lao Ma.
Lao Ma sat in the driver’s seat—Meng Chao’s usual spot.
Shifting slightly, Ma Chihua dug out a half-used tube of opened mints from the crevice of the backrest, then clumsily bent down to pick up a few that had fallen under the seat. He held them in his hand, rubbing them absently.
Tong Hao leaned forward, elbows on his knees, not daring to meet his eyes.
He heard Lao Ma sniff, hoping it was just because of the cold weather.
The answer he desperately wanted to ask about was now stuck in his throat. But he didn’t dare ask—he was afraid of what he might hear. So he kept his mouth shut, waiting for Lao Ma to speak first.
He wished Lao Ma would turn around and look at him over the seat. He wished that when he lifted his head, he’d see him smiling, using his usual tone to reassure him—telling him not to worry, that Meng Chao was out of danger, telling him not to be afraid, that he’d be fine, telling him…
Even if it was just to say Meng Chao was still in surgery.
But Lao Ma said nothing.
His silence was answer enough.
“Was Cao Tianbao saved?”
He heard his own voice tremble. Tong Hao clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, leaving deep red marks.
He desperately needed some comfort, some good news.
Lao Ma didn’t answer. Instead, he rolled down the window and picked up a cigarette from Meng Chao’s car.
This was the first time Tong Hao had ever seen the deputy team leader smoke.
He remembered how, every time Meng Chao lit a cigarette, Lao Ma would tease him, saying he was asking for an early death. Who would’ve thought those words would come true?
The cigarette burned halfway before Lao Ma finally spoke.
“That wasn’t Cao Tianbao.”
Tong Hao straightened up. “Then who was it?”
“No one.”
Lao Ma flicked the ash, forcing calm into his voice.
“The bag was stuffed with random junk—just worthless trash, packed tight. Only the top layer had Cao Tianbao’s jacket draped over it, covered in blood. No telling whose blood it was yet—we’ll have to wait for the lab.”
He cleared his throat with a rough sound.
“They deliberately left the sleeve sticking out, just so people would see it, so they’d think Cao Tianbao was inside. That bag was nothing but bait.”
But Meng Chao hadn’t known. He’d died without ever knowing.
Even as he fell, Meng Chao hadn’t let go.He clutched the bag tightly to his chest, his arms locked in an unyielding grip, using his own body as the final cushion. He thought Cao Tianbao was inside. Mid-air, he had already prepared—prepared to die, prepared to trade his own life for a chance for Tianbao to survive.
Utterly meaningless.
His death was utterly meaningless.
"Are you hurt?"
Lao Ma stubbed out his cigarette, forcibly changing the subject.
"I'm fine. I never even went up. I stood at the bottom of the building all night. Captain Ma, you know what? It should've been me up there. It should've been me who died—"
"Tong Hao, listen to me—"
"He knew my eyelid was twitching. He was afraid I'd feel the pressure, afraid something would happen to me, so he went up himself—"
"Tong Hao—"
"My damn mouth, this fucking mouth of mine. I kept telling him the whole way, the entire way, about my eyelid twitching, how it was bad luck. That's why he went up. I made him go. I got him killed, Captain Ma. I killed him—"
"Tong Hao!"
Lao Ma leaned over, grabbing his arm.
"It's not your fault. No matter who he was paired with today, he would've been the one to go up. That's just how Xiao Meng was—always slacking off normally, but throwing himself into danger without hesitation when it mattered. I used to criticize him all the time for his lone hero act. Seven or eight years, and that kid never changed, never listened to advice. I nagged and nagged, told him so many times—now that he's a captain, he needs to stay calm, not rush in headfirst. But he never listened, just grinned whenever I said anything, always quick with a joke. If he'd just waited today, waited for backup—"
Lao Ma suddenly choked up, tilting his face upward.
"If he'd just waited, at least until I got there—"
He waved his hand, unable to finish the sentence. His right hand covered his eyes, but tears streamed through his fingers.
Tong Hao watched his breakdown, something thick and unspoken rising in his throat. He opened his mouth but found no words.
The abrupt ring of a phone cut through Lao Ma's grief.
"Yeah?"
Lao Ma wiped his tears with the heel of his hand, his voice thick with congestion.
"I'm fine, I'm fine here. Go ahead, Xiao Chen."
He grabbed a tissue, blowing his nose as he responded to the person on the other end.
"Got it. Keep an eye on things. I'll be back soon."
Lao Ma hung up, pausing for two or three seconds.
"Just got word from the shipyard. They caught the guy. One dead, one injured on-site, and another in critical condition. I need to get back to the station."
He looked up, meeting Tong Hao's eyes in the rearview mirror.
"We have to keep going. It hurts, but we can't collapse. We need to solve this case—that's how we honor Xiao Meng. We have to—" He nodded, as if forcing the words out for himself. "We have to stay strong. We have to step up."
Lao Ma opened the car door, one foot already outside, then glanced back at Tong Hao.
He sat there woodenly, face rigid.
"Xiao Tong, don't hold it in. Cry. It'll make you feel better."
Click. The door closed, leaving Tong Hao alone again in the dim car.
Lao Ma said crying would make him feel better.
But he couldn't cry. Not a single tear.
Tong Hao kept feeling like Meng Chao wasn't dead, like he was still here directing the scene. Maybe in the next second, he'd bang on the car window, telling him to get out and work, not sit inside like some spoiled brat.Tong Hao stared blankly at the flashing police lights outside the window, trying to spot Meng Chao's retreating figure amid the bustling crowd.
He couldn't find him. Everyone looked similar, yet none were him.
A sudden wave of panic washed over him. He shivered violently—the car's heater wasn't on, and the cold made his teeth chatter uncontrollably.
His hands fumbled as he stuffed them into his pockets.
There was something bulky inside.
Reaching in, he pulled out half of a jianbing guozi. It had gone cold, limp, and greasy.
That afternoon, Meng Chao had insisted on stuffing it into his pocket, telling him to keep it warm. He'd said he'd finish it later when he got hungry at night.
"If you don't come back soon, it'll go soggy and taste awful."
Tong Hao clutched the jianbing tightly in both hands.
"Didn't you tell me not to throw it away? That you'd come back to eat it tonight?"
A painful realization struck him like a dull ache in his chest.
That person would never return.
There were still countless Meng Chaos in this world, countless people with that name, but not one of them would ever turn around from the front seat with that eager grin, asking for the leftover half of this jianbing.
With trembling hands, Tong Hao untied the knot in the plastic bag.
He shoved the cold jianbing into his mouth and took a small bite.
"It doesn't taste good anymore. The batter's gone sour, the crispy bits are soft, and the leeks aren't fresh."
His nose stung, and his eyes reddened.
"Way too much chili and sweet bean sauce—so overpowering it's making me cry from how bad it is."
He chewed loudly, cursing between mouthfuls as tears finally rolled down his face.
"I told you we'd go for a proper meal after the case was closed, didn't I? We agreed, right?"
He swallowed through sobs, tears mixing with the jianbing.
"What kind of bullshit is this now? Going back on your word, is that it? Huh?"
Tong Hao suddenly stopped, glaring into the darkness.
"If you don't come back soon, I'll finish it all."
He looked around desperately.
"I'm not joking. If you don't show up now, it'll really be gone. I'll eat it all."
No response came—not now, not ever.
Death was like hide-and-seek, where the departed hid and the living searched.
Their traces were everywhere—their scent, the clues they left behind—making you feel you could find them, that they hadn't gone far, just behind a door, around a corner, in the next room, somewhere in the shifting crowd.
But you could never touch them, never grab their sleeve and shout, "I see you!"
They were too stubborn, always wanting to win, always sneaking off to another hiding spot before you found them.
No matter how you cried, begged, or called their name, they'd never appear.
Those were the rules. The dead always won.
And they would keep winning forever.
Tong Hao didn't know how long he'd been crying when he finally looked up and saw a familiar face in the neighboring police car.
Wu Ximei.
He flung the car door open and charged over like a madman, pounding on the window.
Handcuffed, Wu Ximei shrank back slightly, her gaze a mix of surprise and fear as she looked at him.
"Wu Ximei, he died for you! For your Tianbao! If you have any conscience left, confess! Tell the truth, all of it—"
His voice cracked horribly.
"Your plan with Cao Xiaojun—spill it! Everything! You can't let him die for nothing. He can't have died for nothing."
Wu Ximei stared at him."I don't know what you're talking about."
She lowered her head.
"What Cao Xiaojun, what plan—I don't understand. After Xiaojun disappeared, I never saw him again."
Her face was hidden in the shadows, but her voice came through with perfect clarity.
"I know nothing. I have nothing to say."
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